In the tranquil hush of the room, the sound of Akemi tumbling out of her bag was deafening. The sudden change in angle as Volo dropped to one knee threw off her aim, and she landed clumsily on her shoulder, leaving her head spinning. To make things worse, a notification was blinking in front of her.

Admin D*ead has added a Countdown to your quest, Accountant Training.

You have 35:00 minutes remaining. Murder, murder, murder!

“What was that noise?” the Holy Cleric said, voice high and chastising. “You all know it is disrespectful to speak when Kyndra’s light is upon us. Whoever next makes a sound will be permanently expelled from the guild. And that is a threat. Now, silence.”

Volo's shoulders suddenly felt significantly lighter than they had just moments ago. His heart raced as he hastily reached behind his back, his fingers nervously writhing in the empty netting.

“My, my bounty, ma’am…It’s gone…”

The cleric slammed down her staff.

“I said silence! Was that you talking just now, Volo?” she questioned sternly, her tone laced with a threat. “Do you wish to be thrown into the wolf pits? I can arrange for your transport with a snap of my fingers.”

“No, madam, of course not,” Volo said, chastised. “It’s just that my bounty…”

As Volo's head started to turn in her direction, Akemi's heart raced. She swiftly closed the notification and bolted out of the room. Despite the dull, throbbing headache pulsing in her head, adrenaline fueled her sprint down the hallway, propelling her as far away from the bounty room as she could manage. She pushed past one stunned recruit after another, determined to put distance between herself and the impending confrontation.

Upon reaching the front entrance doorway, she paused, her breaths heavy and her mind racing.

Wait, she thought, her throbbing head granting her a brief respite to think. This is a terrible idea.

The heroes in the field outside already saw my face when Volo brought me in. It would be suicidal to sprint straight towards them.

She took a deep breath, then pivoted away from the door and dashed in the opposite direction. Fortunately, none of the guild members in the hallway seemed to possess Gio's keen ability to detect nearby villains. Either that, or the much stronger, higher-level signals coming from the other captured villains in the bounty chamber were overshadowing her measly little blip.

She continued her sprint until the hallway came to an abrupt end. To her left, it split into a kitchen and a lavish dining room. On the right, a spiral staircase beckoned, adorned with a pristine plaque that read dormitories.

Damn it. I need an exit, not a bed.

Glancing through the wide stained glass window at the hallway's end, she saw a gaggle of recruits pouring out of the dining hall and into an outdoor eating area. The area brimmed with picnic tables and a scattering of chairs, but seemed considerably less crowded than the front lawn. Not only that, but a road lay beyond it. A road out of here.

That’ll do just fine.

Just as she was about to step into the dining hall, the reminder of the quest timer hit her like a sudden jolt. "Damn it," she muttered under her breath. That complicated things. While there was a slim chance of encountering a hero to eliminate on the road ahead, the guild hall was practically infested with them. It’d be stupid to ignore the opportunity, even if there was a high likelihood of Volo grabbing her by the bunny ears any minute now.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Why did I have to die wearing this stupid onesie?

Acting on impulse, she forwent the dining hall and pushed her way into the kitchen. As she entered, the door instantly slammed shut behind her, and she quickly realized why: the room was oppressively hot, like a slow cooker left on high. The windows on the door were fogged up, and the air was thick and muggy. A long row of cooks stood at chopping stations, vigorously working on soup ingredients while a steaming broth simmered in a large pot.

A rat the size of a man silently observed the bustling chefs, his presence as motionless and vigilant as an owl. He wore an apron cinched around his waist, and a knife was clamped between his teeth. Thankfully, the room was so noisy that he hadn’t heard Akemi enter.

Chef Phepheroni Rossi | Level 15 Chef

Level 15. Drat. Not what she was hoping for. She was still only Level 2. Then again, he was only a Chef, not something like an Outlaw Serial Killer. On the other hand, that told her very little; she was considered an Accountant, for God’s sake. The System's class names appeared to be as useful for predicting one's killing prowess as an Instagram psychic in seeing the future.

“Rotate!” Phepheroni ordered, his words as loud as a megaphone despite the knife.

“Yes, chef!”

The chefs changed positions. Some of them went to other chopping stations, others threw in new ingredients – carrots, leeks, pickles – into the ever-simmering pot.

“Fire the oven!”

“Yes, chef!”

There’s no way I’ll be able to kill him out here. I’m sneaky, but not that sneaky.

She could go for one of the other line chefs – they’d probably be at a much more reasonable level – but they were all in Phepheroni’s cone of vision. He wasn't only the nearest chef to her, he also served as the kitchen's vigilant sentinel. Whatever force attempted to interrupt his carefully controlled chaos, he’d notice.

Alternatively, she could retrace her steps and try a different area of the building, but she picked the kitchen for a reason. It was an enclosed space, and it was unlikely anyone would check for her here first. They’d head to the dining hall or the dormitories before they thought to bother the cooks. No one liked to interrupt the hand that fed. That was just how things worked.

So, there were no other options. Time was ticking, and she had a rat to skin.

Akemi cleared her throat, and stepped forward.

“Chef,” she said. He ignored her. “Excuse me, chef. Chef.”

On the second attempt, he spun his head around.

"What are you doing here?" he bellowed in a thick Italian accent, giving her unusual attire a critical once-over, his scowl deepening. "For the last time, no recruits in the kitchen!"

“Not a recruit. A messenger. I have something of high importance to tell you about… the…” her eyes darted around the room, and she spotted an open notepad on the stool beside Phepheroni. It displayed a list of out-of-stock ingredients, with one item, "peepers," written in red ink, accompanied by the word "URGENT" in bold. “Uh… the peepers, sir. I have some crucial information regarding the peepers.”

His eyes widened. “Why did you not lead with that, bunny girl? Tell me this news at once!”

“It’s sensitive, sir. Can we address it in another room? A more intimate room?”

Akemi had noted a small backroom just behind him. It would do just fine.

“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “I cannot leave my chefs. Spill it now.”

“I fear I can’t, sir. It’s very… confidential”

His face reddened, his hands balling into fists.

“What could possibly be confidential about peepers?!”

She remained quiet and still, not budging.

“Gods, fine!” he growled. “But it will be on your head if this kitchen explodes.”

He pushed open the door to the small room and stomped inside. Akemi hurriedly followed, locking it behind her. It was clearly an office; a table piled high with notes sat between two chairs, and was surrounded by empty ingredient packaging boxes. She noticed immediately that the room was nearly soundproof – none of the prattle from the outside world could be heard within. Not a single scrape of the knife, or the boiling simmer of soup. Excellent. As long as the inverse was true, this would go just fine.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” Akemi suggested.

He stared at her in utter disbelief, rage growing.

“I – a seat – you…”

Phepheroni grabbed her by the collar of her onesie, dragging her upwards into the air. His fingers grasped the elastic string around her neck and held it tight. It nearly choked Akemi.

“I have had it up to here with your delaying,” he growled. He pulled the elastic tighter, and she coughed, unable to breathe. “What news comes about my peepers? Spit it out.”

“Y – your peepers –”

“Faster!” he screamed, his spit flying into her face.

“They… they got destroyed by…” she coughed, and brought her shaky hands up to his chest, placing them there, palms flat to his apron. “Some girl… with knives… for hands…”

“What? My shipment – it got destroyed by what?”

“[Knife Fingers],” she repeated, a wan smile crawling its way up her features.

The blades went straight through his chest.